Understandable Misunderstandings
by Undomiel5
Summary: Sometimes the seemingly clearest, most straight-forward evidence does not lead to the expected, logical conclusion. Sometimes this is a very, very good thing, especially for Grant Massey, Red Team's main medic, when he sees a nasty bruise on Asha's arm. 5th in a larger series of Edgerton/OFC.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs, its particular characters, or the plots of its episodes. All I own are the plots of my specific stories and a few original characters.**

* * *

It was the pounding footsteps that alerted Asha to her approaching teammate. After sparring practice that morning, she had taken a quick shower, changed into her regular work clothes, and was now heading out to the range. As she was leaving the locker-rooms, pulling on her shooting gloves, Asha heard approaching footsteps and then a voice calling her name, "Asha!"

Looking back down the hall, she saw Grant Massey, the team's primary medic, jogging towards her. The former Army combat medic always sounded, at least to Asha, like a herd of elephants whenever he was moving somewhere in a hurry. The sniper, after decades of work in the woods, was able to walk nearly soundlessly even while wearing combat boots, which made his noise all the more annoying to her. Asha knew he could move quietly if he wanted to, but he rarely chose to. She liked him anyway.

Asha cocked an eyebrow, "What is it, Grant? Hank's waiting for me."

"You were favoring your right arm in practice earlier," the medic said, sliding to a surprisingly graceful stop for his size and the speed he had been going.

"And?"

"Let me see it." The medic said, making the gimme motion with one hand.

"I'm fine, Grant!" Asha replied, slight exasperation creeping into her tone.

"Last time I checked, I was the medic, not you. I'll be the judge," Grant replied. The medic took his duty of taking care of his teammates very seriously, even when it came to seemingly minor injuries.

As Asha pulled off her shooting glove and rolled up the sleeve of her jacket, the sharp eyes of the medic noticed that, despite her words, she was holding her arm quite carefully, almost gingerly, indicating that her arm might be hurting more and might not be as 'fine' as she wanted to let on.

Grant reached out and gently took her wrist. Almost as soon as he touched her, he felt her flinch and heard a hiss of pain fall from her lips.

"Fine? Really?" He said, cocking an eyebrow in fond exasperation at her as he rolled up her shirt sleeve out of the way so he could see what he was dealing with, "You are allowed to not be fine on occasion."

With her sleeve out of the way, the sight Grant saw on her wrist made his heart go cold and his blood burn with fury: a dark bruise shaped roughly like a handprint wrapped itself around her wrist. "What is this?" He growled. He knew from tragic personal experience what this kind of bruise often meant but could not believe that it would ever have actually happened, not with Ian and Asha. Ian wouldn't, would he?

Asha had looked away up the hall, when Grant had taken her wrist, some unidentifiable noise drawing her attention. She looked back when he growled his question. To Grant who was watching her every reaction like a hawk, she seemed more surprised to see it, than fearful or discomfited. "No wonder it was hurting."

"Text Hank. Tell him to go on ahead. Then we're going down to the infirmary." His voice was firm and clipped, leaving no room for argument.

Asha pulled out her phone one-handed and awkwardly opened a text, saying at the same time, "This isn't what it looks like."

"Do you know how many women say that?" Grant replied, his tone full of quiet fury, as Asha slipped her phone back into her pocket.

Asha's face closed down, but not before Grant saw a brief flash of anger. They walked in tense silence down to the infirmary. Once Grant had brought her a cold pack to put on her wrist, he motioned her towards a seat, "Talk."

"There's nothing to talk about," she replied, stubbornly refusing to take a seat.

"Don't try that line on me, Asha. I've seen those kinds of bruises before. I saw them on my mother before my dad got hauled off to jail. You can explain what's going on to me here and now, or as medic I can ground you and haul you up to Dan's office to explain it to him."

The sniper's blue eyes went as a cold as a glacier, but she stiffly took a seat, carefully cradling her right wrist in her dominant left hand. "I had a nightmare last night. That's all there is to it."

"A nightmare doesn't give you a bruise shaped like a handprint."

Asha appreciated Grant's protectiveness over his teammates, injuries to whom he took personally, but right now she wished he would mind his own business. "I had a nightmare, and Ian was having trouble waking me up. I started flailing. He was trying to keep me from hurting myself or hitting him. He didn't mean to hurt me. He would never hurt me intentionally."

* * *

 _The first thing Asha noticed as she clawed her way through a fog back to wakefulness was that her upper body was pinned in place, by human hands not by tangled covers, and She. Could. Not. Move. One arm wrapped around her middle like a band of iron pinned her back against a firm chest. Another arm pinned her left arm to her side and had her right wrist in a firm grip. On instinct, she bucked, trying to free herself, but the restraining arms only tightened around her. Her heart rate picked up, as adrenaline started to kick in._

 _"Stop struggling. You're safe," a voice right next to her ear said, "You're alright."_

 _After a few horribly long seconds of sleep-confused utter panic, Asha finally recognized where she was. It was Ian's voice, her husband's voice in her ear. It was his stubble rubbing against her cheek. It was the sheets of their bed she felt on her legs where sleep pants had ridden up. It was Ian's chest she was pinned against. Whatever had happened she was safe._

 _Abruptly, Asha fell still, her instinctive struggles ceasing as quickly as they had begun. She sagged backwards into his chest, leaning her head back against his shoulder and trembling with fear and confusion. Ian released his hold, as soon as she stopped fighting him, his grip changing and moving from a restraining hold to a comforting one._

 _Neither of them spoke for several long minutes, as Asha fought to calm her pounding heart. Finally Ian asked, "You with me this time?"_

This time, _she wondered confusedly, even as she answered, "I think so?" Her words made it a statement, but her tone sounded half like a question._

 _"Good. You weren't before," he replied, moving to check where he had restrained her to make sure he hadn't hurt his wife by accident. "Anything hurt?"_

 _Her ribs ached slightly from where she had tried to buck out of his hold, and her arms ached somewhat too, but the latter had been aching when she had gone to sleep and could have been just as easily from the previous day's training. "Just aches. I'm alright." Her breathing had evened out, but she was still trembling slightly._

 _"You had a nightmare," Ian said, beginning to explain before she could ask. He moved so he could lean against the headboard and support their weight easier. Then he tugged the blankets back over them both. "You woke me up when you started flailing. You didn't recognize my voice, and when I tried to wake you, you started getting violent, so I had to pin you."_

 _"I don't remember." Sometimes that was just as scary as remembering._

 _"You were mumbling something, but it wasn't in English or any language I know."_

 _"Maybe Cheyenne. I do that sometimes."_

* * *

"I told you," said Asha, her voice half-defensive, half-annoyed at the delay, as she finished her explanation.

Grant, who had started out listening with his eyes narrowed and his arms crossed, finally relaxed, "And I have never been so glad to be wrong in my life."

"Just trust me next time," the sniper replied, rising to her feet and setting the icepack down. She started to leave. Grant could tell from her clipped tones that she was still angry: she was used to working with a team but there was just enough of the lone wolf sniper mentality in her to resent someone poking his nose into what she considered her own private business.

Grant bolted up in time to catch her shoulder, "Hey, Asha, I wasn't trying to pry. I just don't want to stand by and let another lady get hurt like my mother did because I didn't have the guts to say something."

Asha was silent for a moment. Finally her stiff posture smoothed out, and she nodded, with a rueful half-smile.

"We good?" He asked.

"We're good," she agreed.


End file.
